The California Lynches at Christmas (click on family photo icon)

I have created an easy to read holiday (read Christmas) letter this year. If you are only interested in certain categories, then scroll to that category. If you are only interested in a certain individual, scroll to that person. If you are a glutton for punishment, read the whole thing.

Donna has created a year round garden that is a wonder to behold. Her new crop this year is broom, our slogan “Sweep your way into people’s hearts.” We are looking at it as our next cottage industry that may bring out of the ranks of the lower middle class. Ed spent two weeks in Toronto studying classical realism at the Academy of Art. Weekly he stares and draws naked people at the local art center. Truckee enjoys the San Francisco social life from the Western Addition and help pull a local non- profit away from the precipice of doom. Anna, a high school senior, goes to school, works in a bakery and sleeps. Joey, a junior, goes to school, plays drums and sleeps.

WORLD OF WORK

Truckee
Film Arts has been a source of worry for eldest son. It seems that the Dot-Com crash and many years of mismanagement have put the non-profit into an even less profitable pickle. The past year has seen numerous layoffs, yet from it all Truckee has managed to finagle a four day work week with his previous five day salary. Bravo! These tribulations may set the stage for Truckee’s next jump on the career ladder.

Anna
Has jumped into the work world of her dreams full tilt or (I should say) full tort. She has gone from cashier to kitchen pie baker. So much so that she saved Thanksgiving at Village Bakery when the chief pastry chef was out, making and baking over 150 pies in one evening and early morning. The fringe benefits to the family can be seen in our Christmas photo. Note the “love handles.”

Joey
Insists that his work is practicing the drums. He also has a Monday night dish date at our house. If one considers it work(he does), he plays in both Band and Orchestra at Analy, runs cross country and track and practices with his band on weekends.

Donna
Is no doubt the favorite nurse at Juvenile Hall. She is on to the con games of the young inmates but mostly brings home tales of their innocence and sweetness. The competent staff is another story. Although Donna works with some very skilled people, the county continues to send an array of competent nurses who quickly leave because of the weekend scheduling or incompetent nurses who won’t leave, at least not voluntarily.

Ed
After teaching the notorious class of 2010 for two years in a row, Ed opted for a fresh group of (what else) freshmen. He is using his computer skill to bring curriculum into the twentieth century. Check out: sssurveyatanaly.pbwiki.com – put a /Period-2 next to that for a very special project. Students will have to wait for the twenty first century.

OTHER INTERESTS

Truckee
continues to do some art direction on local films and is pursuing an avid interest in technical gadgets. He maintains an interest in all kinds of science, especially astronomy. He energetically embraces the active social life of a twenty- something in San Francisco. What did I hear about a fondue-absinth party?

Anna
Is baking, baking, baking. She remains tied to her cell phone and friends in Alaska. In her heart she want to be a part of the family band. She is organizing her jazz standards and developing a set list at this very moment. Michael Bublé is her latest heart-throb.

Joey
Is the consummate online composer of techno music. He performed solo at the Analy Talent Show this year playing the dumbek and the didgeridoo. You can find the video on Youtube. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gUAXb-zsIVI

Donna
Sunset magazine provided a winter inspiration for Donna this year. Color photocopies of fall leave, cut and mounted. They almost made their way into our Christmas card- which I am sure that you have not received yet. Donna also led an evening of egg decorating.

Ed
Has begun taking Russian at the Junior College on Monday evenings with the hope of soon traveling to Russia and eastern Europe. Unfortunately the stars and the monetary exchange rate are not lining up in his favor. A few things on the back burner that might pan out are a trip to Greece with some high school students or perhaps a trip to Normandy with father-in-law, Bill.


MUSIC

Truckee
Since Lark in the Morning Music Camp Truckee has been practicing fiddle. He also puts an hour a day into practicing guitar. He looks forward to going to Lark next year and taking Sylvia Herrold’s advanced swing guitar workshop.

Anna
Even though she still possesses the voice of an angel and rumor has it she sings in the shower when no one is home, Anna still is hiding her musical gifts under a bushel basket. There was one a rumor she wanted to play the fiddle, but only a rumor.

Joey
At this very moment I hear a double base peddle vibrating on the ceiling above me. Joey has had three variations of his metal group. Paul, the longest running bassist, has given his weekends over to his studies. There was a brief interlude with young woman playing bass and now Harley has stepped in as the new bassist. Eric and Joey are the two consistent members.

Donna
Is the name Malichenka or Rasbutti? Donna’s Balkin trio with Elan and Tabitha continues to sound better and better. We hope that the gifts of Christmas will add a rhythm section to the “What’s its name?” Trio. And Tabitha marriage to Davide has brought us closer to West African musicians in the area, a musical treat.

Ed
Marimba Sebastopol, Sebastopol Marimba, SoCoMarimba, Sonomarimba and finally Sonoma Marimba, Zimbabwe Marimba group has a solid 6 and sometimes 7 who practice weekly and have performed a couple of fun gigs this year (Sonoma County Wood Workers, First Night: Downtown Santa Rosa and a Mega-Party on the outskirts of Petaluma. Looking for volunteers who like heavy lifting.

A great workshop at Lark Camp has further driven my interest in playing gypsy jazz. The only thing that is needed now is more practice time.

THE FUTURE

Truckee
In the coming year we probably will see Truckee change jobs, he hope in some area that is more hands on, technical and perhaps electronic. This kid is going places.

Anna
The CIA may be in Anna’s future. Don’t worry. The Culinary Institute of America is one of the best culinary schools in the United States, located in the former Christian Brothers Winery in Saint Helena, Napa County. The second possibility is the attending the University of Alaska in Anchorage.

Joey
Is getting more serious about school and in the next year he will probably apply to a number of UC’s and State schools. He has been drumming sans teacher for about six months now and has expressed an interest in getting a new drum teacher and expanding his musical horizons.

Donna
Will probably stay in her present work position for the next year but not forever. We look at the maybe getting some kind of work overseas.

Ed
Has decided to continue at Analy and teach the same subject for two years in a row for a change. He is working on getting some dynamic curriculum on line. He also looks forward to using the web to promote some of his artistic and musical interests.

Monterrey Technology Conference

I am excited about teaching again। I just came back from a technology and education conference. I am seeing how the tools of the Internet can open up the world for a student. We are now studying India. I am planning that students lead tours through different parts of India using the tools of Google Earth. Students will also take our old dull dry text book and make it their own. They will enter hypertext and perhaps reword the text itself- infuse it with pictures and movies.

Already -- November 28. And I missed October. Here I am now. Now. Oh no, it is almost tomorrow. But I have captured November in time. This teacher beseiged by students, parents, papers and the evil principal. I will tell all in my upcomming book.

Labor Day, Labour Day- Part 3

The next three months is really a series of stories, but I will try to make it brief. I decided that since we had an agent, since I was finished graduate school (for all practical purposes), and since I longed to live at least near a city again, that I should totally move out of Morgantown. In reality I had few possessions. Paul Puckett (not Gary Plucket) was our agent, an extremely successful country performer in Fairfax, Virginia. We played our (long term) gig at a Greek restaurant in Fairfax. The owner's girlfriend wanted us to play "Peg in my Heart" which, of course, we didn't know. We played a folky bluegrass combination with some pop song thrown in- all three part harmony - of course. The owner was not not pleased. When Paul arrived, we had been fired and were packing up. He talked the owner into at least having us finish out set and getting paid for it.

We sat in George's kitchen in Fairfax, Virginia. George was Jack's (our guitar player) cousin. George was a local contractor and was committed to helping us get another gig. He called many of his connections and we called clubs and bars all over Northern Virginia. An ex-client of his, Mrs. Mallick, expressed interest. George warned us. "You have to be really careful with this woman. She is charming but she can really rip you off." We were warned. She booked us for one night at the Cedar Knoll Inn on George Washington Parkway for dinner. .. One night in the dining room for $100 plus tips. We played our gig- a lovely high class restaurant near Mount Vernon, Virginia. She said she wanted to hire us, long term. Jack went back with his cousin. Karen and I spent the night in a back room of the dinner theater. Karen was freaked out by the place, but I felt fine. Eventually Jack and Karen decided to go back to Morgantown to "regroup" and join me later. They never did. I worked every possible job at Cedar Knoll Inn- waiter, gardener, bartender, short order cook and dinner theater manager. I was a slave in this never never land, where the owner kept the visas of maybe 20 workers from Guatemala and India. Every evening I would play for 2 or 3 hours after I waited on tables. I was well liked but never paid. I lived in the international dormitory above the restaurant. I finally left after the notorious owner skipped town when promising to pay me at the same time. It is a long story, which I will tell at some other time. But Mrs. Mallick sent me my money, which I received the day before I was to appear in court.

I performed at the newly opened Holiday Inn during cocktail hour on a regular basis, then waited on tables after the gig. I was a substitute teacher in Alexandria, Virginia teaching music and art (as a substitute). I worked at the "Coffee House" a coffee emporium in Alexandria. I sang on a regular basis at the Warehouse, a pub in Alexandria. And finally I landed a CETA job in Alexandria teaching Adult GED preparation. My class was mostly African American and we had our classroom in the Practical Arts room (back room) at George Washington High School. My schedule was ideal. I taught from 1 PM to 5 PM, earned enough for a single man in a one bedroom apartment and my student were eager to learn. The curriculum was Algebra, US History and a smattering of Science and Social Studies from High School. We graduated about seven students our first year, a great success.

I had a girlfriend at that time. She loved organic gardening and French intensive method and so on. We were going to move to Athens, Georgia- not too far from our family but close to a cousin and the oasis of liberalism in Georgia. After many conversations we chose to live in Sacramento, California. In the winter of 1978 we thought of living in Sacramento. In reality, after driving across country and meeting my Aunt and Uncle, we decided to stay in the San Francisco Bay Area, more specifically Berkeley. Mary Ellen got a job in San Francisco in June. " I can't believe how cold it is there." In Berkeley I did not know what she was talking about. I got a job with Nona interviewing children about their experiences with fire. This job, a wonderful job, lasted about two years.

The grants were spent and I looked to San Francisco for work. I worked demeaning temporary jobs-I worked for Jim Scott, painting houses on high ladders. Jim never paid me. Jim, Jim, are you there? PAY ME!!! $800. Can I mention Xerox? I had the most demeaning idiot boss at a Xerox shop in San Francisco. All the rest is lost. I found a temporary home at the University of San Francisco in the Business and Finance Department- a family... Hi! Joan. Even though the pay was low, I loved working in this strange paper laden office in the Accounts Payable Department. I even uncovered an employee (friend) who was embezzling money.

I transfered across the park, University of California, San Francisco, Department of Biochemistry, Purchasing Office. It was a good salary and I worked myself up from delivering packages to paying bills (big deal!). I worked at UCSF for about 5 and loved many things about it. I loved the intellectual atmosphere. I loved rubbing elbows with the professors, some of whom became friends. I loved going to Asilomar for retreats and listening to workshops in Biochemistry that were always just a little over my head. I love the congenial office atmosphere and "Crazy Bill" from Santa Cruz. Nevertheless, I was almost fired by my boss, who introduced me to cocaine, because (in my humble opinion) I came close to uncovering his embezzlement of funds from the taxpayers. (by the way, his name was John Glennon . Do not hold it against him. He has served several years in prison (I think). Accept the last two sentences only as hear say.

My future wife wanted me to work as something more than a "clerk". We both had a B.A. in Sociology. But she had gone another year to get both a nursing degree and a Masters in Nursing. She agreed to work while I got my teaching credential. I graduated from San Francisco State and the next year worked at DeAnza High School in Richmond, California. Actually, I worked for the next ten years in first the Richmond Unified School District, then in the West Contra Costa Unified School District. I found a family of teachers and students who were mostly wonderful and the tough ones were not as tough as they played. All children, but some bad children. I worked at DeAnza, then at Delta Continuation School, then at Middle College High School. Each place could be a wonderful book in itself. I loved my teaching job at Middle College so much but by my third year we had moved 60 miles to the north and I got tired of the commute.

To keep my promise, I will end shortly. I have been teaching at Analy High School in Sebastopol for about eight years. I will leave my journal of those experiences in another entry.

Labor Day, Labour Day- Part 2

My high school life was unlike most people. Our family were fairly strict Catholics. My dad went into a Catholic seminary just when most young men were enlisting for World War II. His brother became a priest. Both were in the seminary together at St. Joseph's in Princeton, New Jersey. My mom was quietly but profoundly religious. She had two sisters who were in the convent. When I was maybe 11 years old I said that I was considering being a priest. It started me on the road at age 13 years in a seminary, away from home until my last year of college at age 22. You can see my photo below at age 13 on the seminary grounds at Princeton. I bring this up in this context, only to say that as part of my training we worked maybe 10 to 15 hours a week in various capacities: cleaning toilets and bathrooms, classrooms, out doors, supervisory positions, driving, editing our school newspaper, or year book and so on. The jobs were really too numerous to list at this point. But summers until my sophomore year of college were always at home. And at home I would always find a summer job.

After graduating from high school I was hired at J.B. Van Scivers, moving furniture. Van Scivers, on City Line Avenue was the premier Furniture store on the Philadelphia Main Line. It was the same year that my father had a heart attack. He was in his mid-forties. (He is still alive and in full position of his faculties but a little weak at the age of 87.) It was good hard work with lots of heavy lifting and paid well. We (my partner Bob and I- both students) were fairly well paid for 40 hours a week and time and a half for overtime. At the time I made roughly $200 per week and negotiated with my mom to keep $10 of that with the rest going to the family.

The following summer the seminary decided to move our class, just twelve of us into the major seminary at Northampton Pennsylvania to paint classrooms. It was a fairly thankless and certainly lacked monetary compensation. I alternated between feeling used and deserted and enjoying the isolation, the space and the free time.

When September rolled around, our class began its one year novitiate at the old major seminary and now priests' retirement home at St. Vincent's in Philadelphia. The year itself was without formal classes and included many kinds of work. But the work might take up 12 to 20 hours on the average in any week. I would wash old men at St. Joseph's Home, teach guitar to girls at Saint Joseph Gonzaga Home, visit sick people, general clean up, wait on tables, keep the grounds tidy.

The following year our "mother house" moved the college seminary out of Princeton into a residence in Niagara Falls, New York. We attended Niagara University. And the following summer myself and one of my classmates were sent to Emmitsburg. Maryland to run a summer youth program. We organized picnics, barbecues, baseball games, field trips, workshops, game days, etc.; anything that would keep the youth (ages 6 to 17) occupied and out of trouble for two and a half months. We enjoyed some great perks too. I remember a helicopter tour around the Gettysburg battlefield. I remember wonderful sunny afternoons sipping beers with assistants and friends around a pool. Most of them were lovely young women, but that is a story for another blog.

The following summer I graduated from Niagara University, now having left the seminary and my mother dying in the same weeks. I had been accepted to West Virginia University Graduate Program in Sociology, had met a wonderful young woman, Beverly, while volunteering at a local crisis call center. I spent the lazy beautiful summer continuing to volunteer and then making almost no money drawing pictures of Niagara Falls for tourists.

The first year in Morgantown I worked with two other graduate assistants for an educational sociologist. She taught introductory sociology to three classes of 400 students each. We led small groups and monitored them and did general trouble shooting in the vast logistics that comes in classes of that size. We also helped compile and grade massive 200 question multiple choice exams. I was the SPSS geek also and daily went to the computer center to tweak then turn in the data that some of the professors were playing with. I received $200 per month for my labors (or $2000 for the entire school year). Also I attended graduate school tuition free. It seemed like a lot of money at that time. I paid my rent of $50 per month for a lovely house with my two friends. I spent about $100 per month on food and other expenses and managed to save about $50 per month from it all. With that saved money ($1200) I financed the following summer in Europe. It was 1972. I was 23 years old. The trip was a life changing experience. (another blog)

The next year I garnered an ideal graduate assistantship working for two anthropologists. I shared a room with Dr. Paterson and she provided me with a personal corner and wall where I stuck my "Nixon Count-down Calendar", 1461 little squares that would eventually block out the entire face of Richard M. Nixon. I cannot actually say what I did for these two professors but I remember it as an easier and more relaxed work than my previous year. As I saw my money drying up because of the end of the school year, a friend told me about a job at the Regional Research Institute. During the same year I started singing and performing with a friend in a band and soon there were three of us. We called ourselves "Full Circle" and we played and sang a variety of folk and pop songs. Our band actually found an agent willing to book us in the Washington, D.C. area. I left my job of two weeks at the Regional Research Institute to pursue fame and fortune in Washington, D.C.- more specifically Fairfax, Virginia. My friend responsible for getting me hired at the RRI asked her boss what he thought about her new hire leaving so soon. He said, "That's what you get for hiring a second year graduate student."

With my 1300 punch cards (I hoped that it was my future thesis.) we left with the band to the Washington, D.C. area. At this logical turing point, I must end part 2. This monster blog only started as a regular entry. I promise to try to wrap it up in part three.

Labor Day, Labour Day

Cris Coursey of our local rag, the Santa Rosa Press Democrat, inspired this blog. He is the best writer in the paper and of course he is leaving his job within the month of September.

Labor Day is a holiday that is celebrated only in the United States. The rest of the world celebrates May Day. I will let my readers uncover the paranoid history of why this is so.

This blog is a personal recollection of my work history, beginning at the age of nine in the newspaper business. The Yeadon Times was sent to practically every household in the borough of Yeadon. Nevertheless, the owner, editor, publisher gave me a job of going door to door to collect the subscription fee: $1.00 per year. If a "subscriber" said "no", I was to cross out the name from a list. Door after door people would say, " I thought the paper was free." "Nobody ever collected money before." For each dollar I collected, I received a commission of 10%. (Ten cents for the math challenged among you.)

As a child my parents handed their children no money- no money at all. "Mom, I need..." Her reply from Spring to Fall was: Get out the lawn mower" - a funky push mower. In winter, "Shovel snow." So it went. Between the ages of nine and thirteen I spent my weekends and summer pursuing the often fruitless occupation of knocking on doors, where nobody answered or gave a curt "No!" to my query. One summer I did get a job of cleaning Mrs. Pohl's garden. One day a week she would give me a dollar for about six hours of garden work. The other alternative was pushing a cart of groceries home at the mercy of the generosity of the shopper. A quarter was the usual tip. A dollar was never seen. There were a group of particularly feeble old ladies who tipped a nickel- once identified - to be avoided at all costs.

My first real (summer) job, at thirteen, was really two jobs. In the morning (7 AM) I would walk to the Yeadon Swim Club and clean toilets, locker room floors and general clean up of the pool area. It lasted from 7 AM to 11 AM. I had a break until 4 PM when I started at Don's Restaurant as dishwasher. I will always remember sexy Shelly, teasing the pre-pubescent boy that I was. Shelly had a Ford convertible, a boy friend and went to San Francisco for vacation. All of these things idealized her in my boy eyes. Despite her heavy make up, she glowed with life. She loved me- or so she would say, when she pinch my cheeks. This little boy smelled of the meat fat and cooking oil when he left at 9:45 PM to continue his other job. It took exactly 15 minutes to run from Don's Restaurant to the Yeadon Swim Club. That was evening clean-up time. Pick up trash, sweep the decks, move chairs back, etc. The next summer I secured a position at the swim club, sweeping the miniature golf course. It still paid the same, $1.00 per hour but the distance from the toilets made it feel like a promotion.

There is a run down red brick building at 63rd (Cobbs Creek Parkway) and Walnut in Philadelphia. In the 1920's it was the most fashionable hotel in the city. When I arrived it catered to the senior citizen. It retained much of the snobbery of its earlier days. The occupants were not patients, but guests. The restaurant where I worked maintained the venire of a real restaurant- a menu, even specials of the day. I was a bus-boy. I received my education in cheating at pinochle there. I was only one of two white waiters and the other was a thief. The remaining bus-boys came from that west Philadelphia neighborhood. One of my "aha" moments was when one of the bus-boys asked how I got to work all the way from Yeadon. I said that I hitch-hiked. They chuckled. "We could never do that."

My Junior year in high school I sorted mail at the US Post Office, Thirtieth Street, Philadelphia. We would arrive at 7 PM and stay for a minimum of four hours and sometimes all night depending on the amount of work to be done. The work was deadly dull: sorting one box of mail after another into little cubbies, according to zip code. Working the commercial mail was the best because I could peek into the magazines- especially the Playboys. The pay was good - perhaps $3.75 an hour.

To be continued...

Becoming a musician

The Healdsburg Guitar Festival was here last weekend. Guitar makers from around the country and a few from Japan. Probably about a thousand handmade guitars being exhibited. It is an overwhelming experience for a guitar player and lover. I played maybe a dozen instruments- all a joy to hold and play- all far somewhat superior to my instruments. Two years ago I played an archtop by a Japanese maker and it was my overall favorite. Again I played another by the same maker- the feel, the look, the touch, the sound, the vibrations... So many things make a guitar a work of art.

On entering I bought another music book, called something like "An organized approach to jazz improvization". By page three I am over my head- Dorian, Frigian, Aolian, Locrian and so on. But I will take a little bite at a time. I purchase a dozen "Django" style picks and a video by Taylor Martin playing some jazz standards, amazing stuff. I can play the chords or the melody. But he plays chords, melody and bass at the same time. I am starting with learning the bass part to "Rhythm Changes", alone it sounds very cool. Now I just have to get the other fingers working in coordination. About 2 hours a day for maybe another six months and I think I would have "Rhythm Changes" mastered. Yet I do not have that time or discipline.

My love, joy and faithful companion since I was 15 years old has been my guitar, not always the same guitar but a guitar. Sometimes just to accompany my singing, usually alone, sometimes at gigs, sometime to relax, sometimes to practice. I've traveled many directions in music since those early days- pop music, the sixties folk scene, Old Tyme, Bluegrass, Irish Traditional Music and now several kinds of jazz. All have been joyful musical journeys with my companion.

Yet I have not been a faithful suitor. I have been distracted by other lovely bodies- the mandolin, the fiddle, the octomandola and yes, even for a brief time, the banjo. But I always come back to the guitar.

(That is me, by the way, in the photo. I will not tell you what year. It is my television debut in Buffalo, New York. All true!)

Dubito ergo?

Most people are familiar with Descartes' famous "quote" or should I say insight. Somehow folks think that "Cogito, ergo sum." (I think...therefore I am.) somehow proves we really exist. I learned this phrase in philosophy class but never really understood how a person could reason that some kind of surity about thinking, truely proved his or her existence.

Then I read an article that explaned the Descartes whole thought process. Descarte questioned his own existence. Even if he thought that he might really exist, he was unable to prove this conjecture to himself in hard and fast manner. Then he hit upon the central crux of his thinking process. He doubted that he was thinking, he doubted that he existed or could prove his existence. His doubt was the thought process that he could say with surity that really did exist. Even though nothing else seemed proveable, he knew that he doubted. Doubting was the one thinking process of fundemental surity. Doubting is thinking, therefore he knows that he doubts and thinks, therefore he knows that he exists. How ironic that the fundemental thought process that led humankind into the Enlightenment was doubt.

I bring this thinking into my own world view in several ways. I know that my subjective view on things is only that. It is a limited one person view confined by the limited experiences, prejudices and physicality of one person. So I am in a continuous state of doubt. I think of the opposite. Those people who are sure of everything. I think of those institutions that preach such surity. To me they are the most narrow and closed minded of all people.

I prefer to live my life in an open and doubting position. Perhaps I raise issues of trust. And it is true, I trust propoganda few institutions although I rely on so many of them. I trust individual people but that is an affair of the heart, rather than the mind.

Nude Realism in Toronto

OK, six months and no blog. Hey, six months and no readers either. My plan for the fourth blog was my first sexual experience. Maybe that will get some marginal literary types. But, no. I am going to break the mold. I will move to present day. I shall move??? We shall move... We shall not be moved...

I had a friend tell me. "I want a life like yours." It was a nice compliment and yes, for 58, my life is pretty good- in the summers anyway. (You know I am a teacher?) I flew to Toronto on July third to attend a two week workshop in figure painting- nude of course, at the Academy of Realist Art. During the first days I was overwhelmed by my incompetence. By the second week, I was starting to feel a little practiced again. All of this explanation for you is an esoteric discipline but I love it- a la prima, French 19th Century Realist methodology.


An abbreviated version of a longer story: About 15 years ago I began taking lessons from David Hardy in Oakland and he changed my life- Since moving from the East Bay, I have been using my summers to pursue this style of art. I teach all year long- history..., computer skills, etc. Then in the summers I take this fantastic journeys trying to learn this style of art. It has been a family tradition. Well, my dad was an amatuer artist, but instilled in me a love for it. I have done it as an avocation for my whole life, sometimes marginally, sometimes very seriously.

In Toronto I stayed in a 10 foot by 10 foot room (toilet and shower right there in the room), tiny color TV, sink, my clock radio and a Chinese computer (another story that will not be told here). I will tell the address: 588 Dundas, an incredible deal at $40 a night but no English spoken- the heart of Chinatown and near Kensington Market. I purchase a bicycle for $50 and drove to the other end of Dundas for my lessons- wonderful and perhaps a little dangerous commuting by bicycle especially over the the railroad bridge under construction.

Back to painting: You may know this. Talent in art is overrated. Practice is the key and there were some wonderful artists at the school and in our class. I was on Day 4 of the 4 day pose by Cindy (not her real name). I needed one more day for a basic fill in of areas but then another week for final glazing. I write this because I feel compelled to show at least one of the pieces I did in Toronto. (My sister in Philadelphia is the proud (embarrassed) owner of this partially finished work. Then I would need another week for the final glazing. With all of those caveats I am posting the painting here. I will leave for another blog the rest of my exciting summer and the my earliest sexual experience.

Hey, maybe the words: nude and sexual will get me some more readers. Feel free to write me. I will give a prize to my first unsolictied reader. That another good word unsolicited, rather solicited may jar the search engines of the sexually bored.

Early Memories

Recent research into memory tells us that memories are disturbingly unreliable. Moreover most people hold on to certain memories as reliable but in reality are fiction. So as I tell you that my early memories are true, I allow you some skepticism also. Friends of mine have told me that their earliest memories go back to four or five years old. I don’t know why but I have memories that go back much further. In writing about memory, I must interject that these memories are more likely memories of memories. Otherwise I would have likely forgotten them over so many years. As to the reason I have retained these experiences for so long, I do not know. I have no memory of my birth but I have a memory that reaches back before I was born. As one would expect there are no words attached, and the best way to describe it that I can muster is an experience of consciousness. There is no sense experience of sight, smell, taste, etc. ;but if put into words would be “What is this?”

I have definite memories from infancy. They are memories that one would expect of an infant, mainly feeling of comfort and discomfort. There was another being in these experiences, who, at the time, I did not like at all. Strangely enough or perhaps as one would expect, it was my mother, I would realize much later. I found myself to be resting or sleeping quietly and she roused me. She would roughly pick me up, put me on a cold surface, and wipe my butt, face, hands, bathe me, or put me into uncomfortable clothing. I do not remember any times when she soothed me or made me feel more comfortable. Mothers may have the idea that their infants love them. My experience is that they feel nothing but distain. Whoever that person is, who pulls them from a quiet resting spot into the world of discomfort, babies distain. Maybe other mothers were gentler, and I ask my dead mother to forgive me for this indictment, but babies like comfort. Babies feel touch most acutely but cannot love back, at least that’s how I behaved.

The growth from infancy to childhood goes slow for children. Every day is a long adventure. I have memories of being in a high chair in the kitchen. My mother is jabbering, talking unintelligibly to another woman in the kitchen. Of course they are intelligible to each other, just not to me. I remember hearing talking, talking, and talking and not understanding anything. I knew that they were communicating but what were they saying? Gradually I starting picking up the meaning of many of those words, but never all of them. I learned to understand before I learned to speak.

I remember looking up to adults. They are such tall beings. I remember that I liked it when someone would pick me up. I remember that it did not matter to me who picked me up. I was not shy. By that time I still felt that I only knew a few people, my mother, father, older sister and uncle. I remember my father kindly tucking me into bed and seeing a globe on a high shelf in my closet. I wondered what it was. Strangely enough, I remember the least about my sister at that time. These are all memories from four years of age or before. I know that because we moved from our house on West 54th Street when I was four.

Biography of a Twelve Year Old

Autobiography brings my mind to biography. I just returned from a computer conference in Palm Springs, California. I interviewed a group of school children, 6th graders- 11 and 12 years of age. They created a giant time line via “Tom Snyder Productions”. I take these little videos when I interview with my Aptek camera. What I look for today is ways to turn on children to education and these children were turned on. I am focused on technology in education, because that is my job, my orientation and training. But they called my attention to what they were wearing. A girl said’ My name is Mary Beth but my character is Clara Barton. I said, “Oh, you’re Clara Barton?” Then she jumped right into the character. Assembled before me was not only Clara Barton, but Cleopatra, George Lucas, Empress Wu Zetian of China and Julius Caesar. They were so full of knowledge and enthusiasm, that it made me reflect on many things.

I first thought about my own classes that I teach and how if I could help my students take on character personalities, how much potential I could release into my class. Young people are quick to adopt alternate personalities. Even adults flock to Renaissance Faires throughout the world escape from their everyday drudgery to take on some romantic historical figure. I teach high schoolers, but immediately I saw the potential and the implications. We are beginning the study of World War I. I thought that if I could help my students take on the personalities of historical characters born somewhere between 1880 and 1900, these students could follow the lives through various eras of history, from one particular historical vantage point. Each student not only vicariously lives in the mind of a real historical figure, but that student can view the world over time from that perspective. Then as students interact, in character, they must think about the various perspectives of others from a similar time frame but completely different perspectives.

I know that when anyone takes on a twenty first century perspective of an early twentieth century character, that there is likely to be massive distortion. Student may develop a stereotypical characterization, even a cartoonish shadow of the real person. Nevertheless, they must move outside their own minds and inhabit and embrace a different personality- thus to begin to unlock a the ability to think in new and creative ways and more importantly to empathize with vastly different personalities.

Benvenuto Cellini

I am reading an autobiography written in 1558 by an artist, a rogue, an opportunist, a braggart, and most of all a human being like ourselves. Benvenuto Cellini. It is my escape for now but I am dedicating this blog to him. For he and the recent CUE (Computer Using Educators) Conference that I just attend brought me to this spot and the words that I write in my first blog. Like me, he was 58 years old when he started his autobiography. Like me, he fancied himself an artist. Perhaps that is where the similarity ends. But he brings me in touch with many things I love. I love art, most of all and especially the art of the Renaissance. Cellini was a musician, albeit a reluctant musician. Cellini rubbed elbows with Popes, Medici's, Princes, Priests, artists, soldiers, writers and the common man. I love Italy- the culture, the food, the language- especially since my culinary tour in the summer of 2004. I love Cellini's fallibility, especially the contrast of his thoughtful polite responses to confrontation to his hot-headed impulsive responses. In many ways he lived a careless life and escaped death on many occasions. That he lived long enough to write this autobiography, I consider close to miraculous. My life has been spared most of physical dangers Cellini faced, save a near drowing as a child and several dangerous situations that I found myself in as a youth. But this first entry is a start and my hope is that others may find it interesting. I will not give away the entire plot, except to say that the experiences of my youth to the age of 21 was far different than that of most people who read this blog. I welcome comments and questions as we take this journey.